


Making Friends Is Totally Scientific(ish)

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is awesomely weird and Bones is weirdly awesome. And vice-versa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Friends Is Totally Scientific(ish)

**Ask a Question**

It's not that he's trying to snoop.

 _Really_ , it's not. Jim Kirk does not snoop. He merely... inquires. Life is, in his view, a never-ending series of problems and mysteries and puzzles, one day to the next, and getting through it successfully can be done in one of two ways.

Dumb luck, or advance preparation. And he's done his time, years of it, relying on the former.

Now he's a full-time devotee of the latter. Starfleet may be insane in a number of ways but it's also emphatically merit-based, and Jim's playing that particular game to win it. Might as well apply the same ethic to the rest of his life, too. For consistency's sake if nothing else.

So.

There's Leonard McCoy. Doctor, cadet, ex-husband, cranky bastard, phobic extraordinaire. And that's just the shit Jim learned in the first five minutes, without even _trying_. Father gets added to the list before their shuttle lands in San Francisco, and -- though Jim doesn't clue McCoy in on this new facet of his own identity just yet -- future friend of James T. Kirk also becomes pretty damn likely. It's not a tough call, really; the guy bristles against the rub of life and the universe in a way that's comfortingly familiar. Plus, he shares his hooch.

He's good people, Jim decides. But he also presents a veneer of "this is who I _am_ , damn it," and hell, still waters may run deep but it's the turbulent ones that make it damn hard to figure out what's beneath the surface.

Jim just.... needs to know what's lurking out of sight.

He needs to know _more_.

And he has a plan for achieving exactly that.

  
 **Do Background Research**

Step one is a matter of hacking into the Academy's student records.

That takes awhile -- well, it _takes_ about thirty seconds, once he sits down and actually does it. But he's preoccupied for the first few weeks with getting enrolled, getting his schedule under control, and getting his game plan in order for hitting every single command-track curriculum requirement as quickly as possible.

As soon as he finds a few minutes when he feels like he can _breathe_ , though, Jim cuts easily through about twelve layers of encryption protocols, skims McCoy's profile, and sits back with a quick, impressed whistle.

Confirmed: Leonard McCoy is beyond smart and has already even done shit with his life.

On paper, at least, he's definitely worthy of being formally graced with friendship.

Step two involves tracking McCoy down, getting him drunk, and pumping him for information.

This one turns out to be no more difficult than sneaking a peek at the clinic staffing schedule, waiting outside for the end of one of McCoy's Friday shifts, and announcing: "I owe you a drink, don't I?"

McCoy favors him with an incredulous scowl. That's fair enough, Jim has to admit; they've only met the once and here he comes popping out of the woodwork after more than a month. Luckily, he relents with no more argument than, "you'd better not be planning to be cheap, I don't drink just anything."

That evening alone, Jim learns that Leonard McCoy has very decisive views on just about everything from alcohol --

("Let me tell you something, kid, there's no goddamn excuse at all for half the shit people try to pass off as decent liquor. If you're sober enough to taste it, you're sober enough to be discriminating."

"What about once you're too drunk to remember what tastebuds even are?"

"Who gives a damn about anything at that point? Is it my turn to buy or yours?")

\-- to Academy training regimes --

("Teaching you to be fucking daredevils and who gets to clean up the inevitable mess? Me, that's who. Swear to God, Kirk, I've popped more shoulders back into place this month alone than in my entire career so far, it's absolute idiocy is what it is.")

\-- with a crapload of opinions tucked in between. They stumble back to campus in the early hours of the next day, and Jim is pretty well convinced he's found himself a new best friend.

Just a little more investigation is called for.

Which takes him to step three: digging up the rest of the dirt.

In between classes, simulations, exams, getting laid, and pestering Bones as often as possible (and the look on his face alone, the first time Jim calls him that, is enough to cement the nickname for life) to actually, like, go out and live a little, Jim finds bits of time to explore the background more thoroughly.

Bones, he finds out from the Atlanta newsfeed database, at various times in his childhood took first prize for an apple pie he baked, second prize for growing roses, and third prize for a pig he raised all on his own in his parents' backyard. Jim spends about an hour chortling to himself over the image of Leonard McCoy, 4-H poster child, and files the information away for use at a later date.

He finds out from just plain research that the bland line entry in Bones's Academy records noting publication of a journal article on neural grafting was actually a Big Fucking Deal in the world of medical advancements, and that there _is_ actually room for growth in his estimation of Bones's intelligence.

And then, on a Saturday afternoon when he accesses the mainframe at Bones's high school on a whim -- oh, _then_ he strikes gold. Pay dirt.

The fucking mother lode of all embarrassing adolescent secrets.

With pictures.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Jim feels like the universe might actually love him after all.

  
 **Construct a Hypothesis**

The thing about information is that is has to _mean_ something to be of any use at all, and Jim, generally able to crunch any set of facts into something that makes at least a certain amount of sense in no time at all, is... well, he's fucking stumped.

He doesn't know what to make of this. Of _Bones_. Academic and professional success, but apparently familial failure. Grouchy, laser-focused medical guru, with a twisty-turny history of extracurricular oddities. Undeniably hot and always a hoot to hang out with, yet as resistant to having an honest-to-God social life as just about anyone Jim's ever known.

It gets to the point where the mystery that is Leonard McCoy is, frankly, going to drive Jim out of his mind unless he does something about it, _tout de suite_. He's firmly of the mind that the whole point of learning shit is to apply it a real world setting, and he has no idea how to do that on a day-to-day basis on this one.

Which is...fine, actually, when he considers the merits. Some useless teacher of his once used an entire class period to lecture everyone about lab safety protocols and experiments being unpredictable and the importance of having at least an educated guess about the outcome before mixing chemicals willy-nilly.

Jim had tuned a lot of that out in favor of staring longingly at beakers and vials and wanting to _get to the fun part already, god, what was this dude's problem?_

It's sort of the same situation here. There is no way, he realizes in short order, that he's going to be able to sit on this for - for any length of time at all. It's just, it's _too_ good.

The potential for some kind of unpredictable, explosive reaction sort of even makes it better.

Given all that, in fact, Jim can hardly be blamed for saying fuck it all to pointless speculation and skipping ahead a little.

  
 **Do An Experiment**

The bar is crowded, and it takes Jim a few minutes to find Bones hunkered down at a tiny table in the back, slouched over a near-empty beer. "It's about damn time," Bones mutters when Jim slides into the empty chair. "Why the hell are you so violently opposed to drinking in private like decent people with a healthy sense of dignity?"

Jim stares at him, decides to put his plan into action. "Aw, Bones. What's wrong? Where'd all your pep go?"

Bones scowls at him. "You've known me for six months, Jim, and apparently you haven't been paying attention, _ever_. I don't have _pep_."

"Oh, I don't know," Jim says with a smirk. "Everyone's got pep, Bones, it just needs to be, uh, rallied sometimes. So hey, how can I help? I stand ready to, um. Cheer you up."

Keeping a straight face has never, not once in his life, been so difficult.

"You can get another drink in front of me right the hell now," Bones says, without batting an eye. "Christ, this day has just been fucked."

"Hold that thought," Jim announces. He slips away to shove his way over to the bar, where he puts a wide smile to use in getting quick service. He returns to Bones with four beers clamped between his hands. "Better? Now come on, let me hear it."

"It's nothing. Just a long, tedious, goddamn exhausting day. One of those."

"Sucks. Okay, so we need to get your spirits up! Rah, rah, all that jazz." Bones doesn't betray so much as a flicker of comprehension. "We could play a game!"

"Pool table's taken," Bones says grouchily.

"Truth or dare?"

"What -- _no_."

"I Never?"

"Jim, tell me honestly, does the phrase 'arrested development' carry any meaning whatsoever for you?"

Jim leans back in his chair and grins. "Nope. There's nothing wrong with revisiting youth on occasion, Bones. Don't you ever get nostalgic?"

"Why bother? You can't go back and relive things." Bones frowns into his beer. "Or change them."

"So what? Trips down memory lane can be learning experiences for the future. Like, okay." Jim gears himself up, anticipation thrumming in his veins. "For example, regrets. They can be informative. You know what I regret?"

Bones rolls his eyes. "If you had any shame, probably a lot."

"I _regret_ ," Jim continues pointedly, "that I never used to get involved in stuff. Like in high school, you know? Everyone _joined_ shit. Clubs, teams, whatever. I never did. Sometimes I wonder if I should have been like, a chess nerd. Or, I don't know... maybe a cheerleader."

Bones goes utterly still. Grim resignation settles into his features. Jim struggles to contain his glee. "All right, how the hell did you find out?"

"That's beside the point." Jim waves his hand. "I _did_ , is the point. Bones. _Bones_. Okay, look, tell me one thing and I'll never mention it again, cadet's honor."

" _Fine_. What?"

And Jim grins broadly. "Where on _earth_ did you even put your junk in those shorts? They looked so snug!"

Bones glares at him and finishes his current beer in one gulp. He immediately picks up the next. "You are a stinking son of a bitch, Jim."

"Oh, no doubt. But you love me anyway." Jim pauses, and maybe takes a small amount of delight in Bones's complete failure to contradict that. "Seriously, though. The cheer squad? How did that even happen?"

With a groan, Bones bows his head. "Phys ed requirement, you had to do _something_. I stunk at everything."

Jim eyes him critically, sweeps his gaze over Bones's physique. "Uh-uh. No _way_ I believe that."

"Believe it," Bones growls. "You obviously saw at least one picture -- I hit a growth spurt and got gangly and awkward and sucked at everything I tried. Cheer was a last resort."

"But -- but you've totally gotta do flips and shit!"

"I hate you, I hate you so -- I took gymnastics as a kid, all right? Other kids were out learning how to tackle and dribble or whatever fuck they were doing, and I was merrily doing back handsprings on the balance beam. So I already had the foundation skills. Are you _happy_ yet?"

"No," Jim says, very solemnly, just before slumping over and slapping at the table as he dissolves into laughter. "I am _ecstatic_. Bones - Bones! Oh god, I never saw anything about gymnastics, I thought all you did was bake pies and commune with pigs."

Genuine malevolence starts clouding Bones's habitual, practically meaningless glare. "Jim. What the _fuck_ have you been up to?"

"Nothing much -- did you wear a _leotard_? I bet you were totally adorable!"

"Screw you," Bones says, and shoves his chair back from the table. "I'm out of here."

"No, c'mon, you have to -- you have to do a cheer for me! Just one, a little one --"

Bones stomps out without another word. Jim falls out of his chair at last and lets him go.

  
 **Analyze and Conclude**

End of story, he's not sure he's learned anything, per se. Except, maybe, that Bones really and truly liked doing the most offbeat things when he was little. Also, he seems to have a deep and abiding resentment for anything he was or is forced to do. Jim can respect that. Corners suck. Getting backed into them sucks even more.

The next day he lets himself into Bones's room (the day before he graduates, he _swears_ , he's going to talk to campus security about how fucking easy pretty much everything is to get through) without permission and flops down on Bones's bed. "I found out because I went looking," he announces. Bones turns around his desk chair and levels a look of irate surprise at him. "I checked you out, Bones. Did my homework."

"You -- do you mind telling me _why_ , exactly, you saw fit to pry into my past?"

"Because I wanted to be your friend. And possibly make out with you if you felt like it."

Bones blinks. The faintest tinge of color rises in his cheeks. "What, you had to vet me first?"

"Well, _yeah_. I had to get to know you."

"You know how you get to know people? Talking to them."

"I have been talking to you!" Jim protests, sitting up and jabbing one finger through the air in Bones's direction. "All the time! And what are we doing right now?"

"Oh, we're talking all right. About how you've been _stalking_ me. What the hell, Jim. Are you insane?"

"Beside the point." Jim twists his body and lies down again, drops his head over the edge of the bed to stare at Bones upside down. "And it's not stalking, it's recon."

"It's stalking and it's _creepy_." Bones gets up and leans to smack Jim on the side of the head as he passes. "Do you want a drink?"

Jim grins. He's golden, if Bones is offering him booze. "Yeah, awesome." He waits until Bones delivers a glass into his outstretched hand to sit up again and waggle his eyebrows. "So?"

"So _what_?"

"I dunno, so talk to me! Tell me something I don't know yet."

"You mean you haven't got it all figured out already?" Bones sneers and leans against his desk. "Did the great Jim Kirk come up short in his investigative skills?"

" _No_ ," Jim says indignantly. "Look, Bones. There's a method to the madness, okay? I have managed to scratch the surface of your hidden depths of greatness -- which why the hell do you hide that shit, that's totally fucked, seriously -- and would now like for you to take me on the guided tour."

Bones stares at him for a long, unsettling moment, looking taken aback. "Jim."

"Yeah?"

"You are. You're fucking insane."

"Take it up with the psych board, they've cleared me all over the place. So, _do_ you wanna make out?"

"Fuck you."

Jim gulps down his drink and scrambles to his feet. "No time, study group. Gotta book. One cheer?"

"Fuck. You."

"Dinner?" Jim tries.

Bones sighs and shakes his head. "Come by when you're done, we'll figure it out. And Jim -- next time you want to know something, ask."

With a quick grin, Jim opens the door and pauses in the hallway. "What do you think I was doing but figuring out the best questions?"

 **Communicate Results**

He lets himself in again and the second he steps inside, is glad he did. Bones is just coming out of the shower, scrubbing a towel over his hair, another towel wrapped around his waist. At the sight of Jim, he just rolls his eyes and sighs. "Of course. Sit. Don't touch anything. I'll be ready in a few minutes."

"Uh," Jim says. "Right, um -- hey, wanna make out _now_?"

"The next words out of your mouth better be something about where we're going to dinner," Bones snaps. "And if you say a single goddamn thing about a buffet in your pants --"

Jim flops down on the bed, grinning broadly and wondering if it means anything that Bones has never precisely said he _doesn't_ want to. "All you can eat," he says pointedly. He waggles his eyebrows at Bones. "Won't find a better bargain, I guarantee it."

"Mediterranean it is." Bones slams a drawer shut and yanks a t-shirt over his head. His hair mattes against his forehead, nearly dry in some spots, still glistening damp in others. Jim forces himself - against his better judgment, mind - to avert his eyes and stare at the ceiling. Prying is one thing. Ogling is another.

He's not sure Bones is quite ready for that. He's not sure _he's_ quite ready for that.

Hours later, he changes his mind. Bones is pink in the cheeks, his eyes glinting and slightly glazed. They shared an entire sampler tray of Alpha Quadrant alcohols, and if Jim hadn't been itching to get out into space already, well. He certainly would be now. The universe has so many awesome to things to offer.

But for now he's here, feet on the ground and Bones trudging along next to him, and for the moment at least he doesn't actually want to be anywhere else. At the door of Bones's room Jim blinks blearily and says suddenly, "Bones. I have a very serious question for you."

Bones leans over to peer closely at the entry keypad and focus on getting his fingers to touch the right sequence of numbers. "Yeah?"

"We should make out. For sure."

The door slides open. Bones huffs out a sigh. "That wasn't a question, dick."

"Was so." Jim follows him in and toes out of his shoes, goes to claim what is fast becoming his normal spot, slung across the expanse of Bones's bed. "I asked earlier. I am _renewing_ my asking."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Probably not for awhile," Jim admits. "You're like... and hanging out with you is... and your _mouth_ is like...um. Please? Just a little bit?"

Bones grumbles under his breath and Jim smiles to himself, busily counting the abstract sparks dancing behind his eyelids. He's not really expecting it when the bed shifts, the mattress depressing next to his leg under the weight of a knee, and he's _really_ not expecting it when breath gusts across his cheek before lips brush his. Jim snaps his eyes open. Bones is hovering over him, kneeling at his side. He looks...hesitant.

Jim licks his lips and cranes his neck up and steals another kiss before it's too late. Bones comes right along as Jim lets his head flop back down and the next kiss lingers, soft still but becoming firm, purposeful, and he stretches out alongside Jim just as he tugs Jim's lower lip into a brief, pulling suck. "Yeah," Jim breathes. He hooks fingers into a belt loop on Bones's jeans to tug his hips over a little. Bones murmurs something and relaxes, pushing one leg between Jim's. "Huh?"

"I didn't think," Bones says more clearly, and licks the corner of Jim's mouth, "that 'please' was part of your vocabulary."

Jim laughs and rolls them quickly, rubs his crotch against Bones's thigh. He's getting hard in his jeans and they haven't even gotten _serious_ yet; this is, he thinks, fucking amazing. "It is for the important stuff." He kisses Bones again, this time the way he wants, and the slide of Bones's tongue against his, the tangle of their legs together, the palm curling against the back of his neck --

This, apparently, is what his teacher had been talking about. Two substances, mixed without due regard to each and every one of their properties. It could fizzle into nothing or it could --

It could turn into something _spectacular_. He rocks down and groans and breaks off to stare at Bones, panting. "Question."

"Do you _ever_ shut up?"

"While that is in fact _a_ question, it wasn't _my_ question." Jim resists as Bones tries to pull his head back down. "Hey, hey, wait, this is important."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, _what_?"

"Your definition of making out." Jim finally relents to the pressure on his neck, only to dodge and press his mouth to the Bones's ear. "Any chance it includes blow jobs?"

"Son of a bitch," Bones groans. His hand pushes up under Jim's shirt, warm and dry along Jim's flank. His fingers squeeze and dig into muscle. "This how you are with all your friends?"

"Only the really important ones?"

Bones doesn't answer. He manages to get their mouths aligned again and Jim lets it happen, happily, lets it all go except for long, messy kisses and the slow grind of their bodies together. He's very aware that he didn't get an answer, exactly, and -- and it's _weird_ for him, okay, but in this perfect space of Bones kissing him and palming his back and pushing up into every thrust of Jim's _achingly_ hard cock, it just doesn't seem the time for more reckless experiments.

Which is not to say he's not thoroughly delighted when Bones turns them onto their sides and starts fumbling, deliberately but without urgency, with the button on Jim's jeans. "Here's a question for _you_ , genius," he mutters. He yanks the zipper down and with a few quick tugs, with some helpful wriggling from Jim, gets a firm grip on Jim's cock. "Did any of your _recon_ tell you how good I am at sucking cock?"

"Oh fuck," Jim gasps, as Bones rubs his thumb over the leaking head. "I -- I had an idea."

"Yeah?"

"You're good at fucking _everything_." His cock throbs, steals precious shreds of his focus. "Bones, fuck, come on."

Bones laughs softly. The loss of his hand is an epic tragedy, the way Jim sees it, but one he's willing to bear as the cost of Bones starting to wrestle off his clothes, first pulling Jim up to get his shirt off and then standing at the edge of the bed to yank down his jeans and shorts. Bones grabs his ankles and tugs, pulls his body where he wants it even as he goes to his knees.

And, it turns out, his utter lack of modesty is in no way off the mark. Bones's mouth, ghosting light kisses and licks along the length of Jim's cock before sucking in just the head, is a revelation. It's the _eureka!_ moment of a lifetime, as far as Jim is concerned, the accidental, amazing solution to a vexing problem. Jim pushes up onto his elbows and watches his cock disappear between Bones's lips, engulfed in heat and wetness and jesus _fuck_ , getting worked over expertly by Bones's tongue, and maybe he sinks his fingers into Bones's hair but hell if he feels the need to direct him to do _anything_ differently.

He's dangerously close to coming -- and embarrassingly fast, too -- when Bones pulls back and ducks in to mouth at his balls, pushing one of his legs out and up to make more room, get more access to explore even further. Jim shudders and falls back as Bones swipes his tongue below his sac and then lower still to tease at his hole, quick cat-like licks that shoot tingles up Jim's spine and make him shake. When Bones presses the tip in firmly, Jim grabs his cock and jerks furiously, desperate, wondering if there even _are_ any lines left and if asking Bones to fuck him would manage to cross one.

The moment for asking passes. Bones returns to his cock and pushes his hand away to take it back in and damn near deep throat him with ease. The addition of a single finger, tickling and then sliding into his ass, sets Jim off. He comes with a choked moan. Bones just sucks him through it, swallows every drop. Jim breathes heavily and only manages to move once Bones releases his cock and starts to withdraw his finger; he reaches down quickly and grabs Bones's wrist to urge a full reverse.

Bones stares at him with a cautious, calculating gaze. Then he drops his chin and spits down into his hand and when he pushes it forward again, a second finger presses in alongside the first. "Jim?" he asks, his voice gritty. Jim nods rapidly and Bones swallows, his throat working. He leans to the side and fumbles in his bedside drawer, and Jim bites his lip and waits, forces himself to be patient when Bones stops touching him to stand up and strip his clothes off. "Move back," Bones grumbles. "Gimme some room, here."

Jim huffs out a laugh and scrambles so that Bones can crawl onto the bed after him and push lubed fingers back in, finding and working his prostate with unerring ease. "How long you need?" He idly toys with Jim's softening cock with his free hand.

"Ten, fifteen," Jim gasps. "Ah, _fuck_ , maybe less."

Bones nods. He slicks his cock and kneels in close to guide himself into position. "You stalk me just to get laid?" he asks, just as his cock begins to press in. Jim hooks his ankles behind Bones's back and groans at the stretch. "I hope not. It's another thing you could have just asked -- months ago."

Jim sighs as Bones bottoms out. "I _researched_ you to make sure I was right. _Shit_ , that feels good."

Smirking, Bones draws back, slides deep again. "Right about?"

"How cool you are."

Bones rolls his eyes. "I take it I pass muster."

"Bones." Jim reaches up and drags him down, into a long kiss punctuated by his own soft groans as Bones rocks slowly into him. "I gotta tell you," he mutters, "muster ain't got nothing on you."

"Oh, hell." Bones drops his forehead to Jim's shoulder and shakes with a quiet laugh that somehow shifts into him thrusting harder. "Jim. God."

Jim smirks but bites his tongue on that one. Bones finds his mouth again and settles into fucking him steadily in near silence, nothing but quiet, appreciative noises and panting breaths and the slap of skin. He hitches Jim's body around occasionally, getting better leverage for the quick snaps of his hips, and Jim's cock starts stirring insistently well before even he thought likely. Bones worms a hand between them and strokes him in time with every plunge of his cock, until Jim is arching and hissing, exposing his neck and chest to Bones's roaming mouth.

Bones bites one of his nipples and he spurts weakly across his stomach. "Bones," he gasps. Bones slams deep, comes with a curse muffled by Jim's chest. " _Man_ ," Jim mumbles after a few, still minutes. Bones stirs and eases away, then snags Jim's t-shirt from the end of the bed and wipes his cock before slinging the fabric over the mess on Jim's stomach. "Know what sucks?"

"You, at some point, if the universe knows justice at all?"

"Oh, sure thing." Like he wouldn't return a favor like _that_. But instead of feeling insulted, Jim just wipes himself off and flings the shirt away. "But I mean, just...I feel like I should have savored them more, you know? Your details. Spaced them out like treats. But instead I stuffed my face all at once and now what if they're all gone?"

With a snort, Bones elbows him in the side before getting up. "Whatever, Jim."

"Hey, I'm trying to _express_ myself here. A little sensitivity, maybe?"

"And I'm trying to tell you not to sweat it. I'm gonna get a shower -- you're welcome to join me. You might want to take a look in my bottom desk drawer on your way."

After he's gone, Jim stares up at the ceiling for a minute, scratches his belly. With a sigh he finally rolls off the bed and detours over to Bones's desk to pull open the drawer.

What he sees makes him howl with delight. "Bones!" he hollers. "You are the _best_!"

"You don't even know the half of it, I promise," Bones calls from the bathroom. "You coming or what?"

Reluctantly, Jim closes the drawer on the sight of a half-knitted sock in bright colors. He's suddenly aware of having a new problem to figure out and solve.

He has absolutely got to make sure he'll have Bones around for the rest of his freaking life.

First thing in the morning, he tells himself, he'll start working out a plan.


End file.
